


Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam

by extraonions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always-a-Girl!Sam, Blasphemy, Demon!Dean, Dubious Consent, F/M, Genderswap, Minor Character Death, Possession, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, evil!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-23
Updated: 2010-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraonions/pseuds/extraonions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam swears to find a way… or make one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xphoenixrising](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xphoenixrising).



> For the prompt: _Make them bad. Let them kill people and have sex next to their dead bodies or something. I want something hot and awesome and twisted because there isn't enough of that out there!_
> 
> Please see the story [at my livejournal](http://extraonions.livejournal.com/69750.html) for additional notes and credits.

## Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam

Three months after the hellhounds rip Dean from Sam Winchester's grasp, she wakes from a vision steeped in blood of resurrecting her brother's corpse. A demon stands over her bed, with Ruby's knife held in its—her—grasp. The demon is riding one of the cleaning staff, a pretty enough woman, but a little too thin, a little too worn about the edges. Her eyes are black.

"Sam?"

Sam sits up, the threadbare sheets falling to pool at her hips. She pushes her tangled hair back over her shoulder. "Ruby?"

Ruby nods, a pleased little smile hovering at the edges of her mouth. "Nice to see you too, Sam. Sorry about your brot—h—urkk…."

It's the easiest thing to do. Sam doesn't even hesitate. She stretches out one hand and pulls, and Ruby starts choking and sputtering, gripping at her throat. The meat suit vomits up spurts and dribbles of black demon smoke before falling across Sam's thighs.

Sam pushes and the remnants of the demon are banished back to Hell with a blood curdling wail. The stench of sulfur fills the room, temporarily overwhelming the familiar smells of old-smoke and stale motel. Arcane symbols are scorched on the carpet next to the bed.

Sam rolls the ill-fated maid from her lap. Her body flops to the floor. Sam doesn't bother to check, she knows the woman is already dead.

She steps carefully over the corpse and pads over to the bathroom. The dull throb of a migraine is threading through her skull, but if she listens hard enough, it almost seems like a voice in the dark, whispering to her. There's a thin line of blood trickling from her nose. She licks the blood away, and then wipes the rest off with the back of her hand.

She fumbles two pills into her shaking hand and swallows them down with a little water from the tap. The metallic tang of the water doesn't disguise the coppery flavor of blood than lingers on her tongue.

Sam's thinking about Ava, about what the bitch had snarled after she killed Andy and Jake and started attacking Sam. About their powers, the way you just had to open yourself too them. Everything any of them could ever do… telekinesis. Start fires. Stop hearts, control minds…. Control demons….

In the mirror, Sam's eyes glow gold.  


* * *

  


As Sam falls, so too does Dean.

"What was that, dear boy? I couldn't quite hear you over all the lovely screaming…"

"Y-yes. Please. Please, yes."

A smile stretches across the demon's face as he strokes sweat from the tormented soul's forehead.

"I have been hoping you would say that, Dean. Very much."  


* * *

  


In a different world, Sam Winchester might have listened to Ruby... might have been pulled away from plans to go after Lilith because there was nothing left, and no way to get Dean out of Hell.

This is not that world.  


* * *

  


_Connor Beverley Behavioral Medicine Center_

"Our orders have changed. Lilith has been destroyed."

A young woman wraps her arms tighter around her knees, rocking gently back and forth as she listens to voices no human is meant to hear.

A second voice questions, "What becomes of the girl with demon blood?"

"Samantha Winchester? Azazeal's spawn even now walks a path towards utter damnation."

"And her brother?"

Anna turns her head and moans.

"Dean Winchester is to remain in the fires of Perdition. He is no longer required."

"A pity," the second voice sighs. "He showed great promise."  


* * *

  


Bobby's the one who helps pull Dean out of Hell. It doesn't take much convincing.

"Please, Bobby. Please. We can't leave Dean there. Even if it's just like—" Sam chokes off a sob—"like my dad." She touches Bobby's arm. "Wherever Dad ended up. That's better than leaving him there to become something he's not!"

Bobby scrubs a hand through his beard, shaking his head. Sam's sharp eyes take in the empty bottles of Wild Turkey and Captain Morgan littering the room; the yellowish cast to Bobby's features. She wraps her arms around herself, crying softly. Bobby sighs and gathers her up.

"Alright, honey," Bobby murmurs, kissing Sam's forehead the way he used to when she was still a little girl. "We'll try." Sam's lips curve into a triumphant smile she takes care to hide, head tucked up against Bobby's chest.

They use a modified summoning ritual. Bobby insists they lay down salt lines and circles of power, cardinal points marked and anchored with symbols etched right into the hardwood floor. He burns herbs and chants and doesn't protest when Sam slices a shallow stripe across her forearms with a silver knife and lets it drip down into the bowl.

Hell tears open with a bellowing roar, and spits Dean up in a surge of foul heat and sulfur and angry screams. Sam can just see the outlines of him, like any other restless spirit, shifting between her brother's familiar face to another, and monstrous, demonic version. He melts into a smoky grey cloud, roiling at the edges of the barrier.

"Dean…" Bobby whispers, and it's joy and grief and bitter determination all rolled together. Sam knows Bobby intends to waste no time starting the next spell, one to set Dean's spirit at rest. To destroy him.

Sam is already moving, one hand clutching at the silver knife while the other works loose the buttons of her shirt, exposing creamy skin and the tattoo above her left breast. Over her heart.

"Sam, stay back!" Bobby shouts. Sam turns to him, and Bobby gasps as her eyes flash gold. "Goddamnit, Sam! You got your fool self possessed!" He sucks in a breath and begins the exorcism, shouting, "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion—_"

"I'm not possessed, Bobby," Sam cuts him off, smiling at him sweetly. "Only about to be." She slashes though the tattoo with the knife, welcoming the pain even as she scuffs through the barriers enclosing her brother's restlessly swirling essence. She calls Dean to her, breathing him in.

Dean burns like hellfire, scrabbling down her throat like acid. Sam cries out in pained triumph, stretching out her arms to welcome Dean home.

_Sam?samsamloveyouSammieSamhomesafesammiereal?_

She turns away from Bobby, coaxing her brother's essence to settle into all the empty spaces in her, the gaping holes left in her soul at his death. She pretends not to notice as Bobby takes up Ruby's knife in a trembling hand, lips forming silent a silent prayer for forgiveness as he steps closer. There are tears in the old man's eyes.

Sam stretches out her hand, turning it this way and that. She feels Dean's wonder and fear and confusion as his senses overlap hers. Sam makes a fist, and Bobby chokes out a started gasp. The knife falls from his fingers as he clutches at his chest. It's over quickly, the only mercy Sam can spare for their oldest friend.

It's kinder this way, really. Bobby really should have cut back on the booze; cirrhosis of the liver is no way to go.

Sam leaves Bobby's house without a backwards glance. It goes up in flame as soon as she steps off the porch. There's a strange sense of vertigo as Dean's essence roils within her. She holds it close, crooning a comforting litany of homesafeloved to Dean until he settles.

There's a body for her brother stretched out in the back of the Impala. Not her first choice, perhaps, but it's fit and fresh, the body of a hunter who thought he'd do the world a favor and get rid of the last Winchester standing.  


* * *

  


Sam quickly learns that six months of Hell on Earth, six months without Dean, was a lifetime longer down below. For her brother, who comes back to her broken and twisted in Hell's image. He's not yet a demon. Perhaps it would be easier if he was.

His eyes don't change to full black, more like a murky sort of grey, but he can't control it. Sam pulls her brothers' sunglasses from the glove compartment and hands them to Dean wordlessly.

On the up side, salt lines don't stop Dean, and _Christo_ only brings a weary sort of twitch to her brother's borrowed shoulders.

He also can't move from body to body without Sam's help—not really an obstacle, the way Sam can pull Dean out of one meat suit and pour his damaged soul right down into another. But they are forced to trade out bodies with alarming frequency—unlike a true demon, Dean can't keep a fresh corpse from rot. The few times Sam has tried a live one, Dean has to fight to keep control, and spends half his time curled up against the Impala's passenger window, hands clamped down over his ears to quiet the screaming.

He says it's like being back in Hell. Sam pulls Dean close and promises him a fresh, quiet corpse in the morning, her lips moving against the line of his jaw in feather light, comforting kisses.  


* * *

  


There's a Voice in Sam's dreams. It's dark and seductive, whispering sibilant promises against her skin. It drips with power and promise, and Sam lets herself fall into its embrace.

The Voice echoes around and through her, caressing her breasts before it slips into her, pulsing and throbbing against her. Sam arches her back and she cries out before waking, curled up next to Dean. She's wet and still needy, sex-flush on her skin, and she fingers herself through another orgasm before Dean wakes from her soft cries.

He's wearing a swarthy looking frat boy, olive dark skin and tousled black curls. Handsome. Sam only hesitates a moment before she's touching him, rubbing at his hardening cock through his briefs.

"Sammie? What…"

Sam smiles at her brother; touches a damp finger to his lips. "Shhhh, Dean. I have good news…."

The Voice has told her how to restore Dean's body, seven months gone under the cold earth.

Dean's protests die away as his sister shapes the short, thick cock hardening in her grip. Dean has always given Sam everything. It's nothing at all to give her this.  


* * *

  


Standing in the alley out back of a rundown Chicagoland brownstone, staring down at the fresh, mutilated corpse of a once-pretty blonde girl sprawled obscenely amidst bags of trash and broken bottles, Sam makes another realization.

Her brother is insane.

Dean is wearing a hopeful half-smile on his current meat suit's face, oblivious to the blood splattered liberally on his clothes and running down the hilt of his knife. He's like a dog wagging his tail for approval after bringing in the morning paper. Or a cat leaving a dead mouse on her doorstep.

Dean's humming a disjointed version of _Master of Puppets_. His eyes are far away. "Alistair? Is it good enough? Did I do it right?" Dean drops the knife. He sounds lost.

Sam steps up to Dean—the black guy he's wearing right now is too short and too slender—and wraps her arms around him, beneath the old leather jacket that smells of sulfur and dug-up graves and is still uniquely Dean. She buries her face into his neck, ignoring the feel of tacky blood cooling against her cheek and matting in her hair.

Sam can feel Dean's cock straining against his jeans. She wraps one leg around Dean's borrowed body and grinds against him. Sam guides one of his bloody hands up under her sweater to cup her breast, and reaches the other to guide Dean's face towards hers.

The kiss seems to wake Dean from his memories, and he says her name uncertainly, "Sammie?"

"It's ok, Dean. Don't worry. Once we get your body back, everything will be fine," she promises. Her hands are moving at Dean's waist, while his are fumbling at her zipper.

Dean presses her right up against the wall, drinking her in. Sam offers both absolution and damnation in her lips and the tight press of her body around his.

The dead woman's unseeing eyes stare up at them in silent accusation. They are much too busy to notice.  


* * *

  


"Stop playing with them, Dean. Just slit their throats and be done with it."  


* * *

  


The old church is just as Sam remembers it from the vision that brought her to this very point. Arched ceiling, stained glass windows, an air of dignity that only the most holy places manage to convey.

And blood. Lots and lots of blood.

For the first time, Sam sees her brother as he has become, an artist of pain and suffering. Thirteen men and women, old and young, pious and wicked, from all walks of life, chosen and harvested and carved up like animals on the altar of Sam's desire to restore Dean to his body.

Both of them are naked, and the cool air in the church raises gooseflesh along Sam's arms and breasts. She lights candles and traces out intricate patterns in chalk around Dean's desiccated corpse, which is covered with a blood-drenched shroud.

The Voice in her dreams guides her through the ritual, the timbre of her voice deepening until it seems there are two voices speaking in unison. She anoints the shroud with ashes, oil, and blood—blood of the sacrifices and the blood of her body. Sam tips melted wax over and around, drawing the blackest of symbols with a sure hand.

Dean has been quiet, circling and fidgeting around his corpse. He's humming again, something Sam can't place, and playing with his knives. He stops and shudders, whining low in his throat, and Sam feels the hair at the nape of her neck and along her entire body stand up. Hellfire explodes around them, shooting up from every candle and engulfing Dean's shrouded corpse in flames.

"Now, Dean," she calls, and watches as Dean slits his latest—last—meat suit's throat before dribbling out of the gaping maw of his throat in oily, blackened spurts.

Dean's spirit coalesces around Sam, caressing her body before snaking inside her. She embraces Dean's spirit in a joining more intimate than sex, her eyes flickering between murky grey and shining gold as Dean sinks his way deeper and deeper. Sam chants the final words of the ritual, her voice growing louder and deeper until it seems to shake the foundations of the church. The fires abruptly wink out of existence, plunging the nave into near-darkness, before a few of the flickering candles nearest Sam ease back to life.

Sam holds her breath as she reaches for the charred edge of the shroud; yanks it away. She can feel Dean twisting and flopping about inside her, like a fish on a hook. Sam sobs in relief at the sight of her brother's body. Whole. Unblemished. She runs her fingers over Dean's smooth skin, marveling at the lack of scars. Even his tattoo is gone.

The Voice echoes around her. She must act quickly, to breathe life back into her brother. To bring Dean home. Sam straddles Dean's body—easing herself down over his flaccid cock— and kisses him, using her tongue and her powers to push Dean out and into himself.

Life slams into Dean. Under Sam's lithe form, his heart begins to beat, his lungs fill with air, and his cock quickens within her. It's not a birth. It's a _becoming_.

When they open, Dean's eyes are black.  


* * *

  


The air in the church is full of fresh death and sulfur and sex layered over the musk of age and incense. Sam is propped up on one elbow looking down at her brother's beloved face, fingers idly tracing arcane symbols on his chest as she speaks of seals and tasks and promises.

Already, they have broken a seal—the desecration of this holy ground with unholy rites.

"He speaks to me, Dean. Lucifer. I understand everything now. The plans Azazel made for me. My—our destiny."

"Lucifer…?" Dean's asks. His voice is rough from sex and sleep, but it's her brother's voice. "But…" A thoughtful frown appears on Dean's face. Sam soothes it away with a kiss.

"Think about it, Dean. A whole new world; one we create in His image. And we will be rewarded." Sam's face is a light with unholy purpose, eyes glinting gold in the flickering candle light.

"He'll need a host. A body. We can make one for Him, Dean. Be a real family again." Sam gently tugs Dean's hand—soft as a newborn babe's, but still undeniably Dean—to rest over her abdomen.

"What do you say?" Sam touches Dean's face, running her hand down the side of his jaw. A feather light touch of her mind against his conjures up memories of _home_ and _safe_ and _family_. Dean's eyelids flutter closed.

"Yes. Sam… Sammie. Please, yes."  


* * *

  


Anna Milton covers her ears; sobs; but nothing can stop the voices reverberating through her very soul.

"It has begun. The Winchesters will break the seals. Lucifer will walk free."

"Come, Castiel. There is much work to do."  


* * *

  



End file.
